


my skin will scream

by jurassicqueer (GayQueenOfHell)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Lots of It, Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Fluff, Hospitals, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, alexander hamilton is not okay, and bad shit happens, and he doesn't know how to help him, angst first, but i've decided to post it and will probably regret that when i feel okay again, hamilton freaks out, hamilton has anxiety, laurens just really loves hamilton, lots of blood, poor laurens, this was literally just a vent fic for me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayQueenOfHell/pseuds/jurassicqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know what sets him off this time- he doesn’t know, hasn’t known, in the past few weeks because it seems he always wakes up with the itching, itching, itching under his skin and he always goes to sleep, if he sleeps, if he remembers sleeping, with the tightness settled in his stomach and something dark and insidious and evil whispering to him.<br/>He doesn’t know what sets him off this time, just feels it building building building until he has to rake his fingernails down the inside of his wrist to get a breath in, and even then he feels his ribs protesting his wheezing breaths, feels the familiar squeeze in his throat as he thinks about everything he has to do and all the assignments he has left and all the tests and quizzes and projects and expectations and people and school, and fuck, fuck-</p>
            </blockquote>





	my skin will scream

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally just a vent fic for me bc i feel super super shitty w school starting soon and i kind of lost it so here is hamilton losing it as well bc if anyone has anxiety its hamilton (why does he write like he's running out of time)
> 
> p big trigger warning just be careful
> 
> psa. i wrote this as my experiences w anxiety. how my anxiety feels. what it does to me. what i do to myself. if your anxiety isn't like this, that isn't to say your anxiety is less valid or less real or less anxiety.

“The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder.”

― [ Augustine of Hippo ](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6819578.Augustine_of_Hippo)

 

He doesn’t know what sets him off this time- he doesn’t know, hasn’t known, in the past few weeks because it seems he always wakes up with the itching, itching, _itching_ under his skin and he always goes to sleep, if he sleeps, if he remembers sleeping, with the tightness settled in his stomach and something dark and insidious and evil whispering to him.

He doesn’t know what sets him off this time, just feels it building building _building_ until he has to rake his fingernails down the inside of his wrist to get a breath in, and even then he feels his ribs protesting his wheezing breaths, feels the familiar squeeze in his throat as he thinks about everything he has to do and all the assignments he has left and all the tests and quizzes and projects and expectations and people and school, and fuck, _fuck-_

For a moment Alexander thinks of calling John but his mind immediately disregards it as hysteria- _you always bother him and drag him away from his studies and family and life you’re such a burden he doesn’t even want to talk to you-_ and instead grasps his pen even tighter in his hand and his skin pinches as he clicks it with too much force and all of a sudden he wants to do it again, harder, with something _sharper,_ and Alexander flings the pen away and stumbles from his desk for good measure.

He promised- and he never breaks his promises, never, _never, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll never be bad again, please don’t leave-_ Elisa that he would never hurt himself again after she found him that one morning, and he can’t break that promise, or else she’ll leave too, but all he can think about is how tight his skin feels over him and how loud his mind is and he- _please just be quiet, just for a moment, stop yelling, please, please, please please please don’t yell I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t yell, stop, please-_ he doesn’t even know what he’s doing, not really, when his hand wraps around the root beer bottle that John left on the edge of his desk before he went to have dinner with his sister and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing when he throws it across the room, breath tearing out of his chest in tight wheezes, he only knows the awful scratching that won’t leave him alone- _go away go away go away go away go away go away-_ and he can’t make the noise stop, not even when he sweeps all of his books and papers and pens and notes off his desk and onto the floor.

He falls to his knees, already feeling the panic shredding at his ribcage like an angry lion at the sight of such disarray and all his work, scattered, and how will he ever find where he was before, how will he clean all this up, and his hands are shaking so badly he can’t quite lift a textbook, and when he tries to read the cover everything is just a hazy wild blur.

The textbook falls from his trembling hands and he lurches to his feet, trying to find something, anything to focus on, something that he can anchor his mind to, but the only thing he can focus on is the presentation that is due in a month that he’s only finished half of, and he has to finish it, he _has to, what is he worth if he doesn’t, what-_

He isn’t sure when he struggles to his feet but he’s vaguely aware of stumbling across the room, hip knocking into the side of something and then shredding, stabbing pain in his feet and something wet, and cold and hot at the same time, and then the room around him is spinning and he hits the ground hard. More pain scurries up his arm like a fiery rodent and the pain cuts through the wild haze in his mind enough to smell the root beer and blood and realize he must have slipped on the broken bottle- when did the bottle break?- and without even really thinking about it he flattens his hands on the ground and pushes against them, and his hands and thighs explode in flashy, glittering confetti-like pain, and it takes all of Alexander’s willpower to push himself off of the broken glass instead of just laying back down and remaining in the pool of blood and glass and dying, _finally, please, just_ -

He remembers something, something from one of his first aid classes, about washing injuries with warm water and soap and suddenly John’s voice is whispering in his head- _why can’t you take care of yourself? Why can’t you stop relying on others to care, for fucks sake, Alex-_ reminding him to clean out injuries to keep them from getting infected, even little ones, and Alex uses a large sum of his incredibly expansive willpower to heave himself to his feet and track bloody footprints- _drip, drip, drip, the water follows Alex, following him into the dark-_ and a fearfully meandering trail of blood droplets to the bathroom. It’s barely an afterthought- more of an instinctual movement, really- that has him grabbing an apartment phone from the bathroom counter before attempting to lift his almost-numb leg and slipping into the tub.

His head hits the faucet with a considerable _smack_ and the bolt of pain that shoots through his skull barely breaches the haze in his mind and Alex knows now, somewhere deep in the recesses of his conscience, that something is very, _very_ wrong, but the only thing his defective mind can procure is that he has a test next week that he should be studying for right now.

His free hand grasps wildly above his head, finally smacking into something hard and circular and he grips it the best he can and he almost feels something like relief when blistering hot water spills onto his shoulder. His head tilts back, back until his neck groans in protest and his stinging skull rests on the edge of the tub, but at that point Alexander can only focus on the burning pain that spills over his neck and chest.

He loses his tentative hold on reality despite the hot water- _cold, so cold, freezing his lungs and heart in his chest, rising until he had to strain to reach oxygen, calling out for mama, mama-_ and when he finally checks back into the shitty, rundown motel called Alexander’s Mindspace the water is spilling over the edge of the tub and all Alexander can think of is Ms. Daniels screaming and smacking him in the face for letting the tub overflow just enough for the rug to become soaked.

His hand- _blood, soaked in blood, pressed tightly against his arms, trying to staunch the bleeding, terrified eyes meeting his and calling out, Alexander, Alexander-_ drags along the faucet, smearing blood along the hot surface until he can turn the knob and the hot water stops burning the sensitive skin on his neck.

He comes back to himself, just enough to feel the hot water burn at the cuts on his arm as he drops it back into the water- _bloody water, dirty water, Joseph from next door with his head splattered open on his front steps, blood and rain running down the street to rest at Alexander’s feet, curling around him, reaching for him, the storm crawling towards him, ready to eat him, like it ate Joseph-_ and he feels how cold his other arm is, feels it spasm and something fall from it, where it dangles outside of the tub. He struggles to lift his head and barely catches sight of the phone half submerged in the bloody water pooling on the floor of the bathroom, barely manages to dredge up enough strength to see the blood _drip drip_ down his fingers and plop onto the phone’s black surface.

His head drops back onto the tub’s rim and he watches the water stains on the ceiling rock, back and forth, back and forth, and wonders how long he’s been on this boat. Something hot stains the back of his head and Alexander wonders if the water is rising- but it’s warm, it’s warm water and Alexander hasn’t felt that kind of warmth since his mother died and he-

Black spots drag themselves across his vision and Alexander tries to blink them away, tries to settle the wheezing breaths rattling his chest, and watches the ceiling swing, over and over and over and over and over and over, feels the boat rock, over and over and over and over, listens to his blood _plip plop_ onto the phone like water from a leaky floorboard, over and over and over and over and over and over and-

And then warm hands are pressing against his face, familiar hands that Alexander would know even in this state, and he forces his eyes open- when did he close them- because even though it seemed almost impossible, Alexander would do anything for John Laurens.

The other man’s eyes are wide and horrified and filled with something else that Alexander isn’t in any state to interpret right now, and he can only focus for the few seconds it takes to blink once at John before he, once again, succumbs to the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry i dont know why i writ how i feel it always ends badly and this is so horribly written and i honestly dont know why I'm posting this but i'll probably regret this enough tomorrow to remove it idk i was gonna write a second chapter and maybe i will idk idk idk idk idk


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